


From Me to You

by ZodiacRiver



Series: Blue Spring Ride (YueSing High School AU) [1]
Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Crushes, Fluff, Love Letters, M/M, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 05:44:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17238506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZodiacRiver/pseuds/ZodiacRiver
Summary: Sing writes sappy poems for Yue-Lung.(not a poetry fic)





	From Me to You

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year's Eve! I'm glad to be able to end my 2018 with a cute yuesing...to heal my poor little gay heart ;-;
> 
> This was inspired by a conversation I saw on Twitter!!
> 
> I was struggling with the title, panicked, and decided to go with a shoujo manga title (Kimi ni Todoke)...

Writing is hard. Sing knows this. He’s never had any writing experience before, maybe except for C-graded short stories and essays in English classes that he always wrote half-heartedly. And, based on that itself, he can conclude for himself that writing is terribly _difficult_. He just doesn’t have the prowess in it. He doesn’t even like the activity.

 

The last statement changes during his first year of high school though, once Sing knows that a pretty boy is the manager of the writing club. He’s an upperclassman, two years senior, and apparently, he is one of the school’s biggest asset. He’s won multiple writing contests before, both poetry and prose competitions alike. His name is Yue-Lung.

 

Sing first saw him in the hallway. He was taller than him, quite well-built and thin, but it weren’t those facts that made Sing’s breath catch in his throat as soon as they locked eyes, briefer than what Sing would like. It was the Cupid’s bow in his lips, the way his eyelashes flutter ever so slightly when he blinked…Yue-Lung’s beauty immediately planted the seed of crush in Sing’s little heart.

 

“Who is that?” he gestured at Yue-Lung with his chin, asking one of his fellow classmates who was walking with him. “I’ve never seen him around before. Is he in our batch?”

 

“Oh, that’s Yue-Lung, a senior,” his friend answered. “He’s pretty famous, you know? It’s because he’s a writing genius. I heard he’s won at least twenty trophies and medals ever since he first enrolled in this school. And he’s handsome too, which just boosts his popularity, though I’ve never seen him around with anyone. Also,” he motioned Sing to come closer, before continuing in a quiet voice, “rumor has it, that his family is part of the Chinese mafia or something. But be tight-lipped about it.”

 

Sing didn’t respond. Yue-Lung had long walked past them, now only his back visible to Sing. He sauntered lightly, before making a turn and disappeared. All the time, Sing didn’t detach his attention from Yue-Lung.

 

“Interested?” his friend elbowed him, teasing. Sing only rolled his eyes. “He’s the leader of the writing club. Go ahead and join if you want some, I don’t know, closure.”

 

“I’d rather die.”

 

Sing isn’t the type of person who genuinely believes in love at first sight, so he dismissed his initial feelings as admiration. After all, who wouldn’t admire such person, even from afar? But then, from that day on, he started to bump into Yue-Lung every day. In the aisle, at the canteen, even in the toilet. And it scattered his mind all over the place. He couldn’t help but stare at him, only to get embarrassed when he snapped back to reality.

 

And then, there was his homeroom teacher, who chased him every day to submit his club form. Nothing especially grabbed his interest, so he had a hard time deciding. But for the first time in his life, Sing thought that maybe writing for once a week didn’t sound that bad, if it meant getting to know _him_ …

 

Still, even when it was the last day to submit the form, he still couldn’t pick one. Even his teacher seemed to have given up scolding him. She simply told Sing to make up his mind before school ends.

 

She didn’t tell him that the club leaders were going out during break to promote their clubs, though. Sing was entirely unready when Yue-Lung stood in front of his desk, handing him a flyer.

 

“The writing club is on every Tuesday,” Yue-Lung pointed at the ‘day’ column on the flyer. It was the first time Sing had ever heard him speak. His voice was slightly high and tinted with rasp, like the rustle of leaves in autumn. Sing blushed.

 

“What do you guys usually do? On a normal club day, I mean,” Sing asked, somehow proud of himself to be able to ask a question and talk to the most popular student in school.

 

(And his crush too, of course, but he didn’t want to admit at the time)

 

“What we usually do?” Yue-Lung repeated the question, tucking a finger under his chin, as if he was unprepared by the inquiry. “Well. Previously, I’d give everyone a theme to write a short story from, then I’d ask them to read it aloud. But this year, I’d like to focus more on poetry.”

 

“Oh,” Sing stuttered. “That’s—that’s cool.”

 

“If you want to join, I can sign you up now,” he smiled. Up close, Yue-Lung looked sweeter than ever. It was way too overwhelming for Sing to be _this_ close to him, but he knew that he’d be stuck in the situation if he didn’t give an answer.

 

_Yes or no? Yes or no?_

“Sure,” Sing replied. “I’ll join.”

 

Yue-Lung’s face brightened up. “All right. I’ll sign you up now. You don’t need to submit the form anymore.”

 

_God. I’m so screwed._

* * *

  

Sing is frustrated.

 

It’s been half an hour, and his paper is still empty. He glances around nervously. Everyone appears to be doing their poems just well. He looks at Yue-Lung desperately, thinking that if he stares at him enough, Yue-Lung will come at him and help.

 

He doesn’t expect Yue-Lung to rise from his seat and walks to him, though. Sing quickly pretends to be writing, while still stunned by his non-existent telepathic powers. By a second, Yue-Lung is next to him, bending down and is very, very close to him.

 

“Mhm. A block, huh?” Yue-Lung says softly.

 

“Yeah, I guess.”

 

“The theme is ‘simplicity’. Inhale your surroundings. Look at what’s closest to you, and write something about it. It doesn’t matter if it’s silly.”

 

“What’s closest to me,” Sing gulps. “Wouldn’t that be you?”

 

Yue-Lung chuckles. “Then write a poem about me.”

 

He walks back to his seat, leaving Sing bewildered. _Damn, he’s cocky!_

 

Sing ends up writing about the the classroom. When he reads it out loud, everybody else claps lightly, though it’s clear that they’re bored. Yue-Lung merely throws him a nod.

 

There is still some time left, so Yue-Lung tells his clubmates to write anything at all in any kind of poetry style. Sing, surely, doesn’t know any styles. He doesn’t even know how poetry works; all he ever does is starting a new line when it feels right.

 

So, he decides to write in that antique style of his. But, about what? He’s already had a hard time writing with a theme, let alone writing freely.

 

Then, he remembers what Yue-Lung said to him. They don’t have to announce the poem, so it’ll be fine if he writes a piece about him, right?

 

Right. Even he doesn’t know where to start, he begins to write. And then he begins to enjoy it. And then he finishes it in a few minutes, driven by puppy love, writing about sweet nothings. And then Yue-Lung is next to him again, gazing at his paper.

 

Sing gasps, and covers the paper with his arms. “You can’t see.”

 

“Hm,” Yue-Lung is nonchalant as he mutters and raises his eyebrows. “Okay.”

 

Ever since that day, his feelings for Yue-Lung grows, and he doesn’t try to hide it when he’s with himself. In fact, he begins to write piles of hopelessly romantic poems for Yue-Lung religiously, though he doesn’t do it in the club anymore because Yue-Lung is always interested in peeking when Sing is writing.

 

Sing never forgets to write their names in Chinese characters with a heart in the middle on the corner of each paper. It’s sappy, and he’s embarrassed, but once the habit attaches to him, he doesn’t mind.

 

He brings the notebook to school every day to re-read it again and again in class. Sometimes his friends tag along and praise his improved writing, often teasing him for his ‘new crush’, and always wondering what the characters mean. Only he knows.

 

And unfortunately, Yue-Lung knows too.

 

One day, Yue-Lung assigns them with a project to write forty sonnets by pairs. Everyone makes pairs immediately, except for Sing, who doesn’t even know the names of his own clubmates.

 

“The number is even,” Yue-Lung says.

 

“But everyone’s paired up already.”

 

“I guess it leaves you and me.”

 

The pairs sit together to discuss the project, and so do Yue-Lung and him. “I want to start doing it as soon as possible,” Yue-Lung tells him. “Can you come to my house today?”

 

“Today?”

 

“Unless you’ve got plans, then it makes it tomorrow.”

 

“No, today is fine,” Sing answers. “What’s your address?”

 

“There is no need for address. We can go together.”

 

Yue-Lung then explains to Sing what a sonnet means, about Shakespeare, and all other things that Sing doesn’t bother to listen, because he’s far deep in the thoughts of walking home together with Yue-Lung. He’s already thinking about hand-holdings, small talks, what Yue-Lung’s hair would look like being brushed by the wind…

 

It’s extremely disappointing when Yue-Lung drags him to the parking lot. So he’s using a car, and he sits in the front passenger seat too, and Sing has to sit alone at the back. He sulks. It’s not at all what he wants.

 

Yue-Lung’s house is massive. There is a marble water fountain in the immeasurably vast front yard. Sing can only look around in awe. Inside is as big. The stair to Yue-Lung’s room is spiraling, and Sing grips on the handrail tightly after tripping once.

 

“Your bedroom?” Sing asks, almost in disbelief. “Don’t you have, like, a living room? Or a study room, maybe? And shouldn’t I be greeting your parents first?”

 

Yue-Lung shakes his head. “I only have my brothers and the servants around. I’m not allowed to use any other rooms except for mine.”

 

Sing feels sorry for him. But he follows Yue-Lung to his bedroom, which is surprisingly minimalist and empty in most spaces. Not long after, a maid comes in with a tray of two cups of tea.

 

“Drink up, Sing. They’re not poisoned, so don’t worry,” Yue-Lung takes a long sip. “Come on.”

 

Hesitantly, Sing does. After a few mouthfuls, he’s convinced that it’s indeed not poisoned. The tea tastes like normal tea, but it’s obvious that it’s made by family recipe.

 

They start with the project. Yue-Lung writes some beautiful stanzas, and Sing continues with sloppy, but still acceptable ones. There’s a very distinct difference between their handwritings. Yue-Lung’s is neat and cursive, while Sing’s are kind of unintelligible. Yue-Lung makes a comment about it, and they both laugh.

 

“By the way, Sing, can I borrow your notebook? The one with your poems,” Yue-Lung says. “I need some inspiration.”

 

“Sure, go ahead, but you might need some deciphering skills for that,” Sing laughs it off, then he exits the room to go to the bathroom. When he’s back, he asks Yue-Lung, “did you find it?”

 

“Is it the blue one in your backpack?”

  
“That’s it.”

 

Sing and Yue-Lung write at least ten sonnets, and because it’s near sunset, Sing excuses himself.

 

“I can walk home myself,” Sing assures him. “I know this area well.”

 

But Yue-Lung wins the argument, so now one of Yue-Lung’s chauffeur drives him home. In the car, Sing scrambles his bag for his ‘love notebook’ (that’s what he calls it).

 

Something is different. No—it’s wrong. It’s not the notebook where he writes his love poems in. It’s his club notebook.

 

He realizes, then and there, that both his club and love notebook are both blue.

 

“Sir,” he clears his throat and speaks to the chauffeur. “Can we go back? I left something very important.”

 

The chauffeur scowls, but doesn’t say no. Sing’s heart thrums rapidly. What to do? Yue-Lung knows everything about him now. His shy crush, and, _our names with a heart in between!_

He prays that the car arrives at Yue-Lung’s house faster, but instead he gets stuck in traffic. He’s sweating, despite the unbelievably cold air conditioner in the car. Yue-Lung must be reading it right now, delving into the depths of it, probably laughing at it too.

 

Even when Sing finally, finally arrives, the servants don’t let him in. He has to wait for them to notify Yue-Lung, and he almost yells. After five agonizing minutes, he is let in.

 

“You read it, didn’t you?” Sing opens Yue-Lung’s bedroom door, going straight to the point. “Yue-Lung, you read it, didn’t you?”

 

“What kind of person doesn’t get curious, when their name is written so clearly on the first page?” Yue-Lung is sitting down on his bed, his back to Sing.

 

Sing feels like he’s going to pass out. “Please forget everything about it and return it to me.”

 

“Why? Aren’t those poems for me?”

 

“Yes, but—“

 

“I didn’t know you liked my eyes that much. I’m flattered.”

 

“Yue-Lung!”

 

“And my hair. And my lips, my fingers, my voice, my—“

 

“ _Yue-Lung_!”

 

“I kind of have to say that your metaphors are lovely. You’re exceptional, Sing.”

 

“Yue-Lung, please.”

 

“It’s on the table.”

 

Sing takes the book from the table, hand shaking and close to tears. It’s over, then. Yue-Lung knows _everything_.

 

He walks home. When the streetlights are bright, he opens the notebook curiously, flipping through the pages to find out if Yue-Lung has changed or added anything.

 

He has. Sing swallows when he sees Yue-Lung’s familiar penmanship.

 

_I like you too, Sing._

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!! 
> 
> Yell at me on Twitter: icryoverships


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